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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29116716">four fourths and one last fifth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(kind of), 4+1, Angst, Gen, I wrote something!, Jaskier-Centric, Mentioned Injury, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No beta we die like stregobor should have, Serial Abandonment, Snippets, This is the first thing I wrote in weeks (over a month) and it's a mess, but hey, perhaps?, wrote this in a day</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:41:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,021</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29116716</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the Witcher is still there when Jaskier wakes. Sometimes he isn't.</p>
<p>
  <i>Four times Jaskier woke up without Geralt, and the time that ended the cycle.</i>
</p>
<p>(For Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo, 'Waking Up Together')</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>four fourths and one last fifth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Me: I'll write a little 500 words thing for a prompt to warm up before working on <i>oh, to be unknitted'</i>s update<br/>Me: spends a whole ass day writing a 5k mess of a fic by accident</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Launching himself into a life of heroics and heartbreak following a certain Witcher probably wasn’t the best idea, but Jaskier could do worse. It’s no life of luxury, nor is it as bad as the one timHow should e he spent a night in the sewers of Oxenfurt on a dare, creeping out the guards by singing soulful laments. The life of a Witcher’s barker was somewhere in between and it suited Jaskier just fine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were some drawbacks, however, which Jaskier was particularly annoyed by. Firstly, no one told him he’d need a bedroll. All on his lonesome, Jaskier had many ways of procuring a bed for the night. Sometimes it was an inn, the room paid for by him or his temporary lover. Sometimes it was a barn, in a hayloft where he and a farmer’s child tangled themselves together. Sometimes, if Jaskier had been particularly charming and fell into someone’s graces just right, he’d be taken to a true home, where he ate and entertained and pleasured and slept like a rock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s general existence was exceptionally good at blue-balling Jaskier. He’s not all that mad. It’s the people’s fault, not the Witcher’s, and if they are so hateful, then Jaskier doesn’t miss their company, anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He misses their beds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt of Rivia, the White Wold—soon to be known as, anyway—and Jaskier’s muse did not bother warning Jaskier that he’d need a bedroll. Jaskier didn’t even think of getting one, seeing as their trip from Dol Blathanna to another town lasted barely half a day, and there they had been taken in rather graciously by a farmer who’s livestock Geralt had saved a week prior. They slept in the hayloft, with an unfortunate lack of tangling, and in the morning, Jaskier debuted his newest song. It was met with cautious enjoyment and many coppers. It was a better reception than Posada’s and its shoddy inn, in any case.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could have used the coppers to buy a bedroll. But no one told him he’d need one, and now the Witcher expects him to sleep on moist ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How should I have known you’re too stupid to travel with one?” gruffs Geralt, laying his beaten down bedroll out on the moss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do I look like I’m carrying one, mister?” Jaskier snipes back, pushing out a hip and brandishing his lovely new lute. “You and your Witcher sight should have noticed! Besides, it’s never been a problem before. Two years on my own and I’ve been doing just fine, hopping between beds, barns and caravans.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not my issue.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, but I’m your barker now, so my issue is your issue!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt turns to Roach to bring out his blanket. Jaskier dives forward, holding his sexy lady aloft so the landing doesn’t jostle her too much. Geralt’s narrowed, glowing yellow eyes are not as scary as he thinks. Jaskier shoots him a very self-satisfied grin. They stare at each other for what feels like hours before Jaskier jumps off the leather with a squeak. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why is it wet?!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not waterproof.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then what difference is there between sleeping on that and the ground?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In lieu of an answer, Geralt unfolds his blanket and lays down on the bedroll, casual and unbothered. The leather darkens quickly, water seeping into the material in a way it should not be capable of. Jaskier stands over the Witcher for a minute before delicately placing his lute on Geralt’s packs, as far above the ground as possible. Then he flops onto the Witcher, who barely even flinches. Geralt doesn’t open his eyes, though he bares his teeth, a sharp fang resting against his bottom lip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck are you doing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What does it look like?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They lay together like that for a while, uncomfortable, until Jaskier decides that if the Witcher hasn’t thrown him off yet, then he won’t at all. He wiggles around until his face is tucked between Geralt’s thick arm and broad chest, legs spread and bent at the knees like a frog, and hands kept warm between their bellies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a much better mattress than your bedroll,” says Jaskier, when they are still awake five minutes later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt smacks his head and says nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll buy us two bedrolls in the next town,” Jaskier mutters, snuggling his face deeper into the crevice between the Witcher’s arm and chest, forehead resting against his armpit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the stench of sweat and old rotten blood, Jaskier falls asleep in seconds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes cold on the ground, lute resting on top of his chest. The road to the next town is short enough. Its folk are kind enough not to mention the wet stains running up Jaskier’s entire back. He performs in the square, the tavern, and the inn, getting little more than a few coppers and bits of food—this time gently placed in his lute’s case by smiling children. He buys two bedrolls and a blanket and asks about the White Wolf, and when someone mentions the Butcher of Blaviken, Jaskier breaks out into story and song. It gains him his first silver and many curious eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier repacks everything so he can fit the bedrolls, food, and clothes beside his lute, and follows the town’s directions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(He finds them a few days later, when Geralt gets held up during a contract. The Witcher returns to the sight of Jaskier feeding Roach apples and pears.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not that Jaskier can’t take a hint. It’s not that Jaskier doesn’t know why people leave him. It’s not that Jaskier doesn’t know why he has to leave them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s that Jaskier never feels as alive as when he’s by the White Wolf’s side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is money to be made, yes, and perhaps Jaskier carved himself a spot in Geralt’s life for lesser reasons when they first met. But now? Jaskier adores him. He knows he should stay away when Geralt so clearly wants it, but even when he doesn’t look for Geralt, Jaskier finds himself in the same town or the same inn, he overhears the barman lying to Geralt about lack of rooms and he has to step in. Sometimes they meet on the road instead, crossroads merging, and Jaskier simply follows after Geralt, because there is no point in asking for Geralt to come with him instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He misses competitions and the opportunity to kick Valdo Marx’s ass, but he doesn’t care.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt will leave but he’ll allow Jaskier to travel by his side if only for a day. He’ll tolerate Jaskier, even if not always kindly. That’s good enough. That’s more than he gets from some others. His charm only gets him so far for so long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only Geralt lets him come back. None of the others want him anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>II.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t much enjoy Jaskier tagging along on his hunts. It reminds him of a dog with a stick—the stick is to be thrown but not taken away, even if that prevents the throwing. Jaskier isn’t allowed to go on hunts, so he extrapolates from Geralt’s egregiously meager recollections, and then Geralt complains about the inaccuracies. Rinse and repeat. Frankly, Jaskier’s a little sick of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which is why he took to going to the hunts anyway. Geralt almost stabbed him a few times, mistaking Jaskier for a humanoid monster—bruxa—but other than that, the hunts went fine. The Witcher wasn’t of the same opinion, if his escalating stupidity was any indication.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first time Jaskier wakes to an inn room locked from the outside and no keys to get out with, he jumps out the window. The townsfolk know his tunes well, and wish for more, so they send him hot on Geralt’s heels. Sometimes, when Geralt requests a room too high up for Jaskier to jump out of, and without anything to climb down, he bangs on the door until the innkeeper kicks him out. Geralt disappeared for a good few months after that, puffed up and angry, but didn’t offer a second glance when Jaskier stuck himself to the White Wolf’s tail. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s next trick was barricading both the window and the door. He gave up when Jaskier picked the lock and singlehandedly moved all the furniture out of the way, quick enough to find Geralt mid-hunt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The surprise on his face was insulting. Geralt might be bigger than Jaskier, broad-shouldered and pigeon-chested, but Jaskier is by no means small! At least a bit taller than the average man and sculpted from his life as a traveling bard and a Witcher’s friend, Jaskier is big and strong! A quality that accentuates his charm well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier relishes the day Geralt had left the inn room without any tricks left behind, door open and pliant under Jaskier’s hands as he followed the Wolf into the forest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This was another day like that—a day when Jaskier was in an unobstructed inn room, with the sun still high in the sky, and the taverngoers excitedly pointing him in the hunt’s direction. He left his lute behind, taking only a pencil and his notebook. According to a passing milkmaid, it has been an hour since the Witcher left. This meant either that the fight was over—Jaskier picks up his pace at the thought—or that Geralt had been tracking the thing, and the fight only barely started. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes Jaskier fifteen minutes to find his Witcher.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier approaches Geralt from behind. A sheep grazes on the grass, tied to a stake embedded deep into the ground, with some pungent potion splashed all over her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” Jaskier muses, dramatically opening his notebook with a rustle of paper. Geralt hangs his head with a sigh. “What are we hunting?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m hunting a forktail.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Without a crossbow?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Couldn’t replace the old one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have a few silvers to spare.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Be quiet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They sit in the same spot, crouched between some bushes whilst the sheep naps in her little meadow. Jaskier, bored, takes to annoying Geralt by braiding his hair. When that is done, and the monster of the week still hasn’t turned up, Jaskier stands and walks out into the meadow with a sigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” Geralt growls at him from behind the bush.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Acting as bait!” says Jaskier, tucking his notebook and pencil into a pouch tied to his waist. “No offense, sheepie, but the big, mean lizard doesn’t seem to have a taste for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, Jaskier does what he does best: makes a ruckus.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The forktail investigates the scene within five minutes, which Jaskier thinks is a new record. Geralt curses just barely loud enough for Jaskier to hear as the flying monster descends on him, claws at the ready.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier hasn’t planned this far.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gulps and ducks out of the way. Incidentally, he slams into the lazing sheep. The stench of the potion Geralt used—pheromones, probably—bites at Jaskier’s nose and brings tears to his eyes. He doesn’t notice the forktail lunging at him from above until it’s almost too late. He rolls over to the side just as a claw drags across his back, ripping open his clothes and tearing apart skin and muscle. Jaskier’s mouth falls open in a silent scream, little more than a choked up whimper leaving him. Geralt springs to Jaskier’s side, black-eyed and pale-faced. Jaskier hears the trembling of the air as the Witcher casts his spells, can taste ozone in the air, but he notices little more than the pain and blood pouring down his back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘At least he’ll get coin for the forktail,’ Jaskier thinks as his vision fades.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he wakes, he’s in a bed, which is the first sign that something is off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bedding is made of white linen, crinkled but soft under his hands. He’s laying on his stomach—for good reason, he realizes, as he tries to get up and his back screams at him in protest. A maiden hears his pained groan and flutters to his bedside, offering a drinks and massaging poultice into his wound.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where’s my Witcher?” he asks later that evening, when the same maiden, probably still in her teens, comes to him with a bowl of oatmeal. She looks at him with pity. Jaskier doesn’t know why he’d expected any different.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The healer keeps him for a few weeks and kicks him out when he has no money left. Jaskier barely enough strength to carry his lute.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Jaskier finds them almost a year later. Roach noses at him for snacks and lets herself be pet. Geralt doesn’t let him steal food from his plate. Jaskier orders himself some oatmeal with jam and hopes it isn’t as bland as the maiden’s.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier is tired of trailing after Geralt. He’s tired of only getting scraps when he’s poured tears, blood, and time into their companionship. It’s not about the songs or the fame—it’s not about the degrading comments or Geralt refusing to call Jaskier ‘friend’. It’s about feeling unheard and unseen even at camp, when the two men sit opposite of each other, a campfire between them. It’s about feeling cold even when huddled together under blankets, Geralt growling at Jaskier to keep quiet and still or else he’ll throw him out of their shared blanket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier wants too much and gets too little. He thought he’d be content with simply being allowed to return to Geralt even after Geralt casts him away, but it’s not enough anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, Jaskier comes to Geralt starved. Sometimes he gets leftovers, sometimes he gets nothing, sometimes he gives and loses more than he really can afford to. It should be okay, but it isn’t, and Jaskier is more angry at himself for not appreciating Geralt’s good will than he is at Geralt for thinking favorably of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>III.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re on their way through Cintra, heading towards Temeria, when one of Geralt’s shoulder pads gets ripped to shreds and the metal plates of his brigandine fall to the ground. Jaskier was already of the opinion that the armour was too worn and torn to be of any use, but Geralt had stubbornly refused to buy anything new. Unfortunately for the Witcher, there was no coming back from this, especially when more buckles started failing, rusted plates crumbled with the gentlest breeze, and his leather pants ripped several seams.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt wasn’t very happy in Jaskier’s clothes, but he didn’t have much else to wear while they waited for the armorer to prepare all of Geralt’s commisioned pieces.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t quite get why you didn’t want a solid metal plate, though,” Jaskier muses as they count the crowns from the Vivaldi Bank on Hierarch square. Florens are quite lucrative these days and it shows. They came in with three full purses and left with eight. It in itself was a shock, but Jaskier didn’t particularly comprehend the monumental amount of coin they had until they started counting, passed five thousand, and still had a mountain of glimmering coins left.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Difficult upkeep, costs more, most monsters can punch through it anyways,” Geralt says, making another mound of a hundred coins. Jaskier really hopes his yellow Witcher eyes are able to keep track of everything, because the tall grass isn’t exactly ideal for Jaskier. The Witcher takes Jaskier’s notebook, adds a tick on the page titled ‘NEW COIN’, and starts the count again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh, makes sense,” Jaskier says, imagining how easily a full metal chestpiece would dent when faces with a cockatrice’s tail. It would’ve been digging into Geralt, too, because it’s not like he could un-dent it so simply. He grimaces at the thought. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier almost wishes they’d found themselves an inn room instead, but with the cult of Eternal Flame taking over Novigrad, it wasn’t exactly safe. Jaskier could have gotten one for himself alone, but he’d be a horrible friend if he abandoned Geralt like that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s unfortunate that Geralt doesn’t think the same. Geralt hates Jaskier as much as Jaskier loves Geralt, so it’s not as if Jaskier’s surprised when he wakes up alone under the naked sky, despite falling asleep with Geralt inside their little tent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t catch up to Geralt for a while, but he meets Triss Merigold, who tells him the tale of the striga in far more detail than the Witcher when Jaskier finds him again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Jaskier wants to travel with Geralt in the morning, he has to wake at dawn, for that is when the Witcher rises. It rarely happens. Sometimes, Jaskier will hear the cock’s crows and rise from bed to see the Witcher packing. Sometimes, clinking of vials would rouse him from sleep and he’d have to haul ass after Geralt to spend the day with him. Sometimes, Roach bit at his hair as though it was grass, despite the two not looking anything alike, and Jaskier would for once be awake before the White Wolf himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those rare, clandestine times, Jaskier almost packs up and leaves Geralt in the same way Geralt leaves him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Almost.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt leaves after the royal banquet, too, but Jaskier expected that then more than ever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t surprise him how long it takes for them to meet again. He’s not looking for Geralt, old enough to know there’s no point. It’s been a long winter at Oxenfurt. He had to learn new  Eternal Fire curriculum and teach it, too. This year’s batch can barely take criticism, and their songs suffer for it, but Jaskier suffers more when he’s forced to read their half-assed compositions. It’s a breath of fresh air when he leaved the city, when he leaves Redania. He meets Geralt in Mahakam, where they get drunk and sleep under the stars. The Witcher for once wakes after him of his own accord. They drink water, they pack up, Jaskier gives Roach stolen goods, and they leave onto the next adventure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t want to talk about Cintra, or Pavetta, or Calanthe. He doesn’t want to hear about the passing of both the princess and her love at sea by Skellige. The same night that Jaskier debuts his tragic song about their forbidden romance, Geralt leaves in the middle of his performance, but allows Jaskier to run after him. They travel together for a couple more weeks until the Witcher wakes in the middle of the night and leaves sooner than he planned the previous day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They meet again and again and again, until they meet on the Road with Geralt half-assedly fishing for a djinn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leaves Jaskier behind three times that day. Maybe more. Jaskier doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hurts a lot more when there’s someone Geralt runs away to. Jaskier plays second fiddle to many cuckolded partners and spouses, whom his lovers more than they enjoy him, but he’s never expected to be so insignificant in Geralt’s eyes that he’d openly tell Jaskier he’s worth less than the sorceress that mind-controlled him into a petty revenge plot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hurts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>IV.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been a miserable few days. Yennefer is always a minus as far as Jaskier is concerned, but she was truly going out of her way this time. In addition to her boy toy being used for little more than teasing Geralt—Jaskier knows the witch has better taste than that—everything has gone to shit barely in the span of two days. The party split, Borch, Tea and Vea fell off the cliff, Geralt is as cranky as ever without Roach, and Jaskier is…he’s just so tired. He’s fourty, now. He’s fourty and he’s old, he has crows’ feet and he isn’t as sharp as he’s hoped to be in his old age. Geralt is old, too, and perhaps he’s as tired as Jaskier is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, what is Jaskier saying. Geralt is always tired. In many ways. Maybe this time they’re tired the same way. Maybe, just maybe, the older and wiser Jaskier, muted and not as painful to look at or listen to, will be able to connect with Geralt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He approaches Geralt without much confidence but with a lot of hope. The Witcher doesn’t acknowledge him. That is fine. His friend is hurt and grieving, and Jaskier will not deny him the time to process it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(But it leaves Jaskier wondering if Geralt would ever grieve for him. He’s only known Borch, Tea and Vea for a few days. Would his grief for them be greater than his grief for Jaskier?)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They sit in what Jaskier hopes is companionable silence. Geralt rarely wants him to speak, so he’ll try to keep it as short and to the point as he can. Perhaps if he hits the right note, Geralt will not leave him this time. Or ever again, for that matter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You did your best. There's nothing else you could have done,” Jaskier speaks, voice barley above a whisper. He pours all of himself into it, though it comes out small. “Look, why…why don’t we leave tomorrow? That is, if you'll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Witcher hums, as he is prone to do. But he hasn’t said no yet, nor has he left. Maybe there’s hope for this still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We could head to the coast,” Jaskier continues. “Get away for a while. Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn't it? Life is too short. Do what pleases you while you can.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Composing your next song?” Geralt asks. His voice is like gravel. Jaskier grits his teeth. He knows how this ends. He knows the familiar ache this will leave in his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I'm just, uh... Just trying to work out what pleases me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt leaves. Jaskier hangs his head, doesn’t have to look behind him to see Geralt walk into Yennefer’s tent. Can Geralt smell the sadness on him? Can he scent the emptiness which festers within Jaskier? Can he hear the sad stutter of his heart?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Would he care if he did?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(It doesn’t matter. Jaskier doesn’t, either. He should walk away first tomorrow. No one will care enough to notice.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier spends the evening with the dwarves, drinking, swapping stories, and not playing his lute at all. He strums his lovely lady and makes sure that despite her scrapes she’s in mint condition. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes up alone, again. He wonders how he wasn’t roused by the dwarven armor clanking or their shouts or packing of camp. Though, perhaps, there is nothing to wonder about. He wouldn’t be mad or surprised if they laced something into his drink, somehow, just to keep him out of their way. He’s not dangerous, but he’s an annoying pest, and that’s worse. He slings his lute over his shoulder, packs what little he has, and doesn’t leave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He goes looking for the others. For Geralt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shouldn’t have bothered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Geralt yells at him, spits in his face, when he blames Jaskier for every wrong thing in his life, Jaskier is not surprised. Geralt isn’t particularly wrong, Jaskier thinks. He has been making Geralt miserable enough that the Witcher abandoned him time and time again. It’s easier to reach for the low-hanging fruit, especially since it’s also the most obvious. It’s quicker, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t know what to say, or if he’s supposed to say anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lies, mouth running faster than his mind—even though it’s by no means fast—and he leaves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leaves first, for once, like he had thought about so many times. But it doesn’t feel like a victory or a revenge. It feels like a massacre, like he’s lost a war that he made up in his own head. Geralt is the one who sent him away, so what does it matter that he is the first to step away?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>V.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier might have gotten a bit too drunk and he might have been a bit too sad to drink, because he honestly wouldn’t have tried to see for himself if there’s a siren in the northern caves of Ard Skellig otherwise. As is, he took ‘coast’ bit a little too far and lives on a place completely surrounded by them, complete with cavernous mountains and crude folk. They love his little ditties and bar songs as much as his ballads, though while the coin is good and lovers aplenty, he doesn’t really want much to do with people anymore. There isn’t much point when being left behind in the dust is the Destiny awaiting him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he drinks. Often alone, sometimes with whatever little group decides to adopt the bard for the night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hopes the boys won’t feel too guilty about accidentally sending him off to his death. It wasn’t their fault his alcohol-saddled brain would come up with the idea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, yeah, it’s a siren alright.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t know much about them, because they’re not really an issue on the Continent, and Geralt always managed to avoid getting on a boat with Jaskier. He always assumed the Witcher just didn’t want to part with his horse, though perhaps he didn’t like the idea of being truly stuck with Jaskier with no escape.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No matter, now. The siren is neither talkative nor quiet as she hauls him into the air, bringing him deeper into her lair. She’s not murdering him outright, interestingly enough. Her face changes from that of a beautiful maiden’s to something that truly earns the title of ‘monster’, and her blue scales cast patterns on the cavern walls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She drops him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know how high up he’s been, but he hears things break before his head hits the ground. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a voice, here and there, that reaches him while his world is dark and far away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t wake so much as he regains consciousness. He feels shattered, but that’s nothing new. Pain emanates from every inch of his body—skin, muscle, bone, and his lungs sound like the rear end of a rattle snake. He can’t breathe as coughs shake him and the bed he lays on. Something made of glass breaks, somewhere, and everything becomes loud. Someone grips hip by the shoulders and hauls him up, massages his back and reminds him to breathe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows that voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows it many times over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s speaking too softly to be true, but when Jaskier calms and opens his eyes, he sees familiar yellow irises and sharp pupils. The black slits fill out into circles the longer Jaskier stares. Pale eyebrows furrow with worry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jaskier?” Geralt whispers, as though he has any right being here. Jaskier doesn’t answer. Out of spite, out of exhaustion, out of confusion. He stares.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the first time that Geralt has been awake before Jaskier and still there, not in a hurry to leave the bard again. Jaskier doesn’t know how to feel about. He doesn’t know if he wants it, anymore. Why would Geralt be here, though? Maybe he visits Skellige more than Jaskier had thought. He hopes Roach is okay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Geralt is the one that found him in the caves—oh, gods, he’s going to scream at Jaskier again—then he’s taking care of him out of duty. Hell, there aren’t many healers around Jaskier’s humble abode, which he recognizes by the ceiling and shoddy woodwork. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are hands on his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jaskier?” Geralt grinds out again, and his voice sounds like he hasn’t spoken in weeks, even though Jaskier faintly remembers his voice being a non-stop comfort when he was asleep. “You hit your head. Can you hear me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier hums. He want to talk with Geralt. Not after everything. The Witcher will leave anyway. Why try?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Witcher, for once, does most of the talking. He checks up on Jaskier a lot, asks him about his head, his broken legs, his crushed shoulder and cut-up hands. He brings Jaskier food and is the first thing Jaskier sees when he wakes again the next day. Geralt hovers, not leaving Jaskier’s side unless it is to prepare food and bring water.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t understand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” he asks. The word feels like a knife in his throat. Geralt looks anywhere but into Jaskier’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I—I’m sorry,” he says. A silence stretches on. “For what I said on the mountain. It was wrong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve been saying it for as long as we’ve known each other,” Jaskier answers with a shrug. “Just used your words for once. I’m used to it. It’s alright.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s eyes snap to him. He looks confused, taken aback, and his apathetic mask has cracked just enough to show the slightest bit of pain. Jaskier doesn’t understand what could possibly be hurting him right now. The Witcher’s mouth opens and closes as he starts saying something but then cuts himself off. It takes Geralt a while to think of something to say. When he does, he steels himself, and looks into Jaskier’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you worked out what pleases you?” he asks. Jaskier doesn’t see how that has to do with anything, but he doesn’t have the energy to question it or think of a different topic to speak about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” he answers, though it is half a lie.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll stay with you until you do, then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, tired. “You’ve never lasted with me for more than a month. It’s been two years and for naught, so what makes you think it’ll go quick now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m here,” Geralt says. “And I will be here until you figure it out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You won’t,” Jaskier counters. “Even if you do, you’ll leave once I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If that’s what you want, yes. I’ll stay for you, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier coughs a short, sarcastic laugh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, right, because what I want and what makes me happy is of any importance to you at all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t want to talk. Not with Geralt, not with anyone, and especially not about this. Did Geralt have to develop a cruel sense of humor at this time?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Goodnight,” says Jaskier, even as the midday sun shines bright in the sky.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(They talk about this when Jaskier wakes up again. Geralt makes him oatmeal with jam.)</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Never really wrote a 4+1/5+1 type of thing before, but it was kinda fun :0<br/>I'm vaguely active as @maarchi on tumblr! (maarchi.tumblr.com) feel free to visit and/or shoot me an ask :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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